"𝑺𝒖𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒚 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒆. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆."

September 2003,

Delhi.

Love breaks, they say.

But love didn't break me.

It just revealed the pieces of myself

I had never seen before.

When I looked closer into those pieces,

they were not the splinters of a mirror.

They were the petals of a flower.

Like a wind that brushes the bud,

love found me, not to break,

but just to open the bud to a bloom.

The petals drifted open.

It was not a break.

It was a bloom.

It was not a pain.

It was a bliss.

It was even more bliss when every piece,

every petal of the bloom carried you.

Only you.

I say again,

love doesn't break,

it just reveals the pieces of yourself.

And, love is the only thing that shows you,

being in pieces can sometimes be wholesome, too.

Like the pieces of petals in a bloom.

Pinky promise.

The handwritten words faintly shimmered in blue ink, some words blended with the traces of my dried tears across a sepia toned antique notebook, each letter bleeding into me as my trembling fingers brushed gently against the final words 'Pinky Promise'.

It was written by her.

And, reading those words, her image, her voice, her smile, her laughter, the way she used to look at me with a mix of mischief, coyness and love, the way she used to talk endlessly, holding my hand, the way she used to wipe my tears, the way she used to twist the end of her dupatta whenever she was nervous, the way she used to breathe gently against my chest while sleeping, the way she leaned on my shoulders whenever she was devastated, the way she used to find massive meanings and happiness in little things, the way she used to bury her face in my chest, pulling my shirt to hide her blush with the fabric of my shirt itself whenever she was too shy, and the last but not the least, the way she used to join our little fingers with her melodious voice 'Pinky Promise', everything echoed in my mind all over again.

She was almost in front of me now, yet I couldn't smile. My lips trembled to smile about her presence in her handwriting, but my eyes formed tears for her absence.

She left me.

She left me. After all her pinky promises.

She broke me in a way I bled for a lifetime. After all her poetic words that love doesn't break painfully. The lie. The shit.

Love breaks. Love hurts. Brutally. Cruelly. More than anything else in the world.

Love is the only thing that shows you, being alive can sometimes mean nothing more than just an indelible pain.

As much as I loved her, as much as I missed her, I hated her for leaving me with this pain, for choosing someone over me, for giving me a lifetime of wounds, yet... I couldn't move on. I didn't want to move on, either.

Because moving on doesn't mean you forget it. No matter the beauty or pain you experience, memories stay forever! You are just too powerless to erase them. Moving on just means you choose your happiness over your lingering hurt. Indeed, it is the strongest trait anyone could have. Perhaps, if my loved ones are in my place, I too would suggest them moving on. But ironically and personally for me, happiness without her felt like a betrayal and the pain of surviving with her memories felt like a loyalty. I once promised her my love and loyalty, and I wanted to keep that promise forever. No matter what she did to me. No matter how far she went away.

So I stayed. Stuck. Loving. Hating. Bleeding. Remembering. Holding her notebook with me everywhere. For years.

"Sir, we have reached the office," the driver said, dragging me out of the cocoon of memories I had been wrapped in.

I blinked, inhaled slowly to get myself ready to wear the mask of a rigid businessman over the aching human inside me. Once I was ready, I closed the notebook, its leather cover worn, the sepia pages frayed.

The car door opened.

I stepped out, the notebook still in my hand.

The crisp air of Delhi brushed against my face, the evening sun casting its golden orange glow across the glass building of our head office.

My security team of four men moved with precision, guiding me towards the sleek door of our office.

As I stepped in, the receptionist and a few other staff greeted, "Good evening, sir."

I gave a brief nod in return, my eyes fixed ahead as my personal assistant Raghav approached and informed me, "Sir, the TV channel crew is waiting in the boardroom."

I nodded slightly, turning my head to my security team. With a brief flick of my forefinger, I directed them to remain in the lobby itself, and their legs halted in place with absolute obedience.

The security team for me was never really my idea. I believed if I didn't have the strength even to protect myself, then I would not be eligible to lead and protect my company. That was my stand. But my dad, who was the chairman of our Sitara industries, preferred a security team. I didn't oppose his ideas as always. But I didn't obey him, either, as always. I agreed with my dad to have a security team with me. Yet, I was the one who decided when and where the team stayed.

The choice was never my dad's. It was mine. Always, mine. Always, will be.

As the security team froze on my silent command, I stepped into the elevator. The metal doors slid to close, the elevator rising up to the 12th floor where the boardroom was located.

Once the elevator reached the 12th floor, the doors opened and I stepped out.

The corridor was quiet, the marble floors reflecting the fluorescent lights.

The boardroom doors awaited at the end of the corridor, and I headed towards it, Raghav beside me.

On reaching the boardroom, Raghav held the door for me. I stepped in, my eyes scanning the room briefly where the microphones and cameras set in different angles neatly around the long glossy wooden table.

The TV channel crew looked up, their professional smiles welcoming. "Good evening, sir," they said politely.

I offered a composed smile. "Good evening, everyone. Thank you for having me," I said, easing myself on my leather chair, sliding the notebook into the space under the table.

The interviewer, who sat slightly angled opposite to me, smiled in response. "Thank you for joining us today, sir. And, congratulations on your recent entrepreneur of the year award."

I nodded subtly. "Thank you,"

"Shall we begin the interview, sir?" She asked.

"Of course."

The crew adjusted the lights and cameras. I leaned back, my fingers steepling.

One of the audio technicians approached me, holding a small wired lapel microphone. "Sir, we will clip this onto your jacket. It will pick up your voice clearly for the broadcast," he said politely.

I nodded.

He carefully clipped the mic onto the lapel of my blazer, and moved away.

The director gave a thumbs up to signal everything was ready, and the interviewer glanced at her notes for a moment before looking into the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's very rare to meet someone who is both a leader and a mentor, but today our guest embodies both. Known for nurturing young talents with opportunities, admired for his commanding presence in the global market, celebrated for transforming challenges into milestones, he truly redefines success itself at this young age. But success is always one side of the story. Behind the layers of achievements, awards and headlines, there is always a person shaped by choices, sacrifices, and the moments only a few have witnessed. Today we hope to see the person behind the title, his journey, his struggles, and his strength that made him who he is in the present. Let us welcome, the CEO of Sitara industries, the entrepreneur of the year, Mr. Pranav Jagdish Bhosle." She shifted her eyes to me with a warm smile. "Sir, it's an honour to have you with us today."

"Thank you," I responded. "The honour is mine."

She smiled as she leaned forward. "Sir, at just 29, you have achieved a lot. Sitara Industries was launching only fabrics when you took charge at the age of 24. But within five years, you have grown it from clothing to food to furniture, and you have recently announced that sitara products will be in electronics, too, soon. And, you are successful in every decision of yours among different products in such a short time. What is the key factor that keeps you in consistent success in various markets?"

I rested my forearms on the table, pausing for a fleeting moment, letting the question settle.

I was not there with readymade answers. The TV channel team did notify me about the topics they were going to cover during the interview, but not the exact questions so that the conversation would be natural. And, I...I didn't prepare anything even on the topics they shared. I intended to speak only what I honestly felt. Honest answers didn't need preparation.

"My strength," I said. "Success is not always kind or light. It can be rude. It can be heavy. So heavy and rude that sometimes, it can push you away, distract you, mislead you, blind you, even crumble you apart. The real challenge is to carry the success without letting it erode who you are as a person. It needs so much strength to hold it without letting it control you from your first ever success. If you have that strength, you can focus on only the growth. You can achieve more than me, and carry success like a flower, keep growing and blooming, not as a burden or a distraction."

She nodded thoughtfully, the corners of her lips curving lightly. "You carry success like a flower, you said. Interestingly, all the products of Sitara have flower related names. The clothing brand, lantana. The food brand, blossom. The furniture brand, verbena. And, your soon to be launched electronics brand, iris. Is there any personal connection with flowers that inspired this?"

I froze, the question hitting me like a bullet, the ache rising somewhere deep from my soul.

I didn't only have a personal connection with flowers. I loved flowers. Because she used to compare herself with flowers in her poems, and I loved her. The flower.

She was really a flower - vibrant, alive, and intoxicating. But with time, she became like a dried flower that was preserved between the pages of my books. Beautiful, yet lifeless. I just named my brands with flowers to keep her alive at least in my products. No matter how much I hated her or loved her, I wanted her essence to be alive in my everyday life. Something I saw everyday, something I heard everyday. So the names of the flowers.

But how could I say the truth in the national media?

Everyone doesn't deserve to receive the truth. Especially her.

In case she watched this interview from any corner of this world, she should never learn, she still lived in my heart even after years, even after all her fake pinky promises.

I swallowed hard, forcing a calm exterior. "No. By the way, verbena refers to a festival in some places and we wanted our furniture to hold the grandness and a happy to gather vibe like a festival in everyone's home. So, verbena. And, iris..." I added with a faint smile. ".... is a part of our eyes. It is the gateway through which we perceive the world. Electronics are, in a way, the gateway through which we connect to the world. So the name felt natural. That's it." I gave a small shrug. "Flowers and the inspiration for these names have no absolute connections."

The interviewer's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Interesting," she said. "Then, coming back to your response about success and strength. Did you always have this strength to turn every challenge into success, and every success into flowers that weigh something so small from your childhood?"

"No." I shook my head with a smile. "Strength doesn't come by birth."

"Then what made you strong?"

I let out a slow breath, my eyes steady on the table, and then met her eyes. "Love," I said.

With Love,

Nilah R.